Packing Up.

In the back of an attic mind

Bookshelves and uncracked spines

And dusty bottles of claret

And boxes of old records

There is a single-beacon projector

Shoot shooting up

Recalling

A feeling, November two years ago.

And I want to describe it but there aren’t words,

Though there’s a chill in the air and the lights were bright

On the Boston commons and I cried

But I wasn’t sure I was sad.

There were teenaged gangs in the background,

Fucking around in the dark

And laughing over cigarette smoke-

I can still feel the night like a rueful carousel.

I can still feel the night like the traces of scars,

Cuts healed over. Bruises fading.

I want to describe it but there aren’t words,

I can smell it but cannot taste it fully

Like sweet rose hookah smoke.

And in my head

Someone is singing

About better to stop loving now.

I’m not sure I agree.